Page 23 of Clean Point

I quickly reeled myself back from my surprise at her offer, asking, ‘Are you sure?’ When she nodded enthusiastically in response, I turned back to the nurse. ‘Can she do that?’

The nurse looked between us, her lips pursed with indecision, before nodding. ‘Okay. But don’t touch anything.’

Inés jumped up from her chair and followed me into the room.

The room was set up simply for first aid, a bed laid out with a fresh paper top, the bloodsucking kit set out, still in its packaging. The nurse gestured to a chair, asking me to sit, before taking her place next to me.

‘So, has anyone caught you up on all the tour gossip since you’ve been away?’ Inés asked, distracting me as the nurse took my right arm.

‘No, tell me everything!’ I smiled in reply. All the while, her hand slid into my left, squeezing and holding it tightly. Inés began to dish – or as much as she could dish – since she had been out for a few months following her surgery on her wrists.

I forgot for a moment about the last two years, remembering instead our time spent in locker rooms and bars. Sometimes, you never know how thankful you are for someone’s friendship until it’s gone.

The nurse worked quickly, and all the while, Inés’s hand stayed in mine as she kept me company and sufficiently distracted. She finished without me even noticing, and all because I had found an old friend by my side.

11

Scottie

Shatter – Maggie Rogers

‘Come on, give me ten more minutes!’ Jon shouted from the sidelines. My body protested vehemently. I didn’t have one more minute left in me, let alone ten. On the opposite side, Nico’s lean figure stood out against the bright backdrop of the tennis court, his muscles taut with exertion and his chest soaked with sweat. The sun was relentlessly beating down, intensifying the challenge.

It was the first day of our intensive training. The clock had barely hit ten in the morning, and I was already planning my escape route off this damned island. We woke up to a run, gulping down a quick breakfast before spending the rest of the morning practising drills and footwork. After an all-too-short recovery, we were unceremoniously dumped into the gym, with a personal trainer adapting the workout according to whatever cross training supreme ruler Jon dictated was the focus for the day.

In the afternoon, I faced the double whammy of yoga and Pilates, while Nico enjoyed some pool time for his knee rehab. If, by some miracle, we managed to survive, our reward was the ‘luxury’ of stretching, cooling down, and recovering in the jacuzzi-turned-ice bath Jon seemed convinced was a treat instead of torture.

I was close to chartering a private helicopter to come pick me up. If he kept up being nice, I might let Nico come along.

‘Pick up the pace, Scottie!’ Another yelled command had me plotting Jon’s murder as we ran suicides between the lines of the court, rackets in hand for extra intensity. Jon’s authoritative presence loomed over the court, his tall frame casting a shadow as he pushed us to our limits. The court’s white lines taunted me as I struggled.

Jon’s phone erupted in a ring. He yanked it from his pocket, delivering a terse ‘hello’ before turning away, leaving Nico and me to push forward. But instead, I halted, my hands on my knees as my lungs caught fire, gasping for air.

Seizing the stolen moment to rest, I hoped Nico would be doing the same when a ball attacked me from out of nowhere. My body twisted to avoid it and with a scowl, I turned to the other side of the court, spotting Nico. Despite the sheen of sweat on his forehead, he was sporting a smirk, one eyebrow playfully arched.

‘No slacking now, Sinclair,’ he shouted, pulling another ball from his shorts pocket. The hem grazed halfway down his tanned, muscled thigh. Every time he’d moved around the court, the shorts inched up a little, revealing glimpses of skin and ink, which left me wondering how much further they could creep up.

‘Jon’s gone. Can’t you leave me to die already?’ I whined. It was still early in spring, but with the court outside and unshielded from the sun, I was melting away. Removing my navy cap, I kept my blonde hair in check before wiping some sweat-soaked escapee strands from my face. I had recognized the hat from the pool when he’d stolen it back, but if he didn’t want me to keep stealing it, he needed to stop leaving it lying around. And judging from the way he’d eyed it when I’d arrived at practice, his jaw clenching with what I hoped was annoyance, there was a possibility he might still expect it back.

‘Come on. Let’s see what you’re made of,’ he challenged, mischief dancing in his voice as he looked from me to my racket that sat just to my side. ‘Then we’ll get a delicious protein shake.’

The thought made me queasy. While I knew getting back into shape after such a long break would be challenging, I’d underestimated how brutal these training sessions could be.

Another ball smacked into my side, this one delivered with more force than the last. I scowled, locking eyes with Nico, who was all too pleased with himself. He bounced another ball against the court surface before launching it my way with a stretch of his arm. My attention was hijacked by the sight of his shirt lifting as he moved, revealing a precious sliver of his lower abdomen. I lingered on the tantalizing trail of muscle, only to be cut off by the waistband of his shorts.

Muscle memory kicked in, my hand adjusting into the correct position on the racket, my body moving toward the ball. An exhausted grunt escaped me as I swung, the sound reverberating around the court. The ball sailed over the net, bouncing once in front of Nico before he returned it. With a sly grin, he let out his own strained groan, mimicking me. Narrowing my eyes, my suspicion raised, and as I hit the ball, I did it again, the yell both helping to relieve tension, and mocking his own. A smirk spread across his face as he swung, and this time there was no mistaking it as another loud, truly pornographic groan left him.

A single laugh escaped me as I broke, unable to contain myself, before stumbling forward to return the ball. I mirrored the noise, each of us getting louder and increasingly ridiculous with our groan as we each returned the ball over the net. We were both smiling despite an ache that felt like it permeated all the way to my bones, running around the court rallying with each other, being loud and silly, our laughter echoing against the court’s white walls and the distant sound of waves crashing nearby.

As Nico reached for the next ball, he misstepped, his right leg buckling under his weight and he slid backward to the ground.

A groan of pain filled the air, and I knew from the scar the right was his bad leg. Without a second thought, I tossed my racket aside and, fuelled by a surge of adrenaline, sprinted across the court to where he lay.

‘Are you okay?’ The words escaped me on a heaved breath as I found him still on his back, his chest rising and falling deeply with exhausted breath.

‘I’m fine,’ he snipped, tone tinged with irritation. I reached out a hand, but he shook his head, ignoring the offer. ‘I said I’m fine. I don’t need help.’

‘You sure about that? Considering you’re the one rolling around in pain,’ I retorted, frustration bubbling up. His hand clutched his knee, and I moved to assist, remembering techniques from my own past injuries.

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